


When September Ends

by levele3



Series: Sherlock&Shakespeare [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, False Identity, Gen, Great Hiatus, Hiatus, Multi, On Hiatus, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:32:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levele3/pseuds/levele3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling really is just like flying. Sherlock, having been witnessed jumping to his doom is now considered dead, only he isn't. London is a dangerous place for a dead man walking though and Sherlock knows there is only one place he will be safe. Somewhere he can lie low for a bit and re-group before heading off to destroy Moriarty's empire of crime. </p><p>Irene hasn't heard from Sherlock in months, and now she never will again. Then why hours after his death does she receive a mysterious, cryptic text from a dead man? “I’m not dead, let’s have dinner.” </p><p>This is the direct sequel to One Week I have now made all of my stories as part of a series as they reference one another but there is no need to read them all, only what tickles your fancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When September Ends

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't think this is ready, the long awaited sequel to One Week, but I feel if I start posting what I do have I may be encouraged to keep writing. I wont post everything at once, I'll try to spread it out. Productive criticism is welcome. I own nothing. Kudos to ACD, Moffat, Gatis, Green Day, and William Shakespeare.  
> This is a sort-of reworking of Much Ado About Nothing (I Hope)

Sherlock was dead.

There was no denying the fact; all the papers had him in their headlines. “Suicide of Fake Genius” _They’ve got it the wrong way around_ he thought and a pleased smile crossed his face as he passed yet another stand of papers, _it should read “Suicide of Genius Faked!_ ”

Mycroft _had_ been keeping a close eye on him but while the cat’s away… it was the day of his funeral, Mycroft had to go. So Instead of taking advantage of the empty house to enjoy some quiet and much needed, if not deserved, rest Sherlock snuck out to grab a decent coffee. Of course this led him far too close to Baker Street. Then again, no one would be home, both John and Mrs. Hudson would be gone.

Sherlock loved taking risks.

The flat was still in the same state of disarray as it had been when he’d left it days before. Obviously John had not had the heart, or time, to clean up. Sherlock strode over to the desk with purpose; he needed one thing in particular. The desk was littered with the usual bit of papers, notes, old evidence photos, and a coffee cup that started growing mold of its own accord.

Sherlock found a brand new package of cigarettes he’d forgotten he bought; he almost went to open the package when he saw what he was looking for. “Aha!” he said aloud out of mere habit. Sticking out from under a pack of nicotine patches was The Phone. _The Phone_ that belonged to _The Woman_. It didn’t matter she didn’t text him anymore he was sure she was doing fine with the arrangement he’d set up for her. But he needed to contact her and this is where he stored _that_ information. Sherlock slipped the phone and nicotine patches into his coat pocket and left the cigarettes, he might regret it later but it felt like the right decision at the time.

He exhaled in frustration, there was so much more he wanted to do, things he wanted to grab. His beautiful violin was out of it's case if only he could just slip it back in, but he resisted. He glanced mournfully at the picture on the mantel, the one of him and John with Peter Davidson all dressed up. He shook himself, this was not time to get lost in the past, he needed to look to the future, his future the manhunt.

Sherlock had made it back to Mycroft’s home exactly ten minutes and 23 seconds before Mycroft returned.

“How was it?” Sherlock asked with feigned interest.

“It had its moments” Mycroft replied nonchalantly

Sherlock raised his eyebrow to show he was genuinely interested now.

“Anderson had the gull to actually show up and Doctor Watson did not appreciate it.” Mycroft was trying to be delicate but Sherlock was sitting up straight, all ears.

John had chinned the Chief Superintendent for him over some mild remarks Sherlock would have let go in a pinch. Knowing that John had come to his defence even after his death it was almost heartwarming.

“Please brother mine, do continue.” Sherlock asked politely waving his hand around airily as if inviting Mycroft to take a seat.

As it was _his_ house Mycroft did take a seat and only continued after pouring himself a small glass of whiskey.

“Well I gather Mr. Anderson said some very nasty words under his breath but made the mistake of being within ear shot of Doctor Watson. Poor Molly had been giving the loveliest speech about you when John jumped from his chair and repeatedly punched the man in the face all the while shouting at him. Anderson was basically his human punching bag.”

“Piety I missed it.” Sherlock said genuinely sorry, he would have loved to deck Anderson a few times too.

“Now, on to more serious business” Mycroft said interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts “what would you like your new name to be?”

Sherlock needed to disappear for a few months, go completely off the grid, and get out of Europe entirely before coming back and beginning his man hunt. He needed a nice quiet place to make plans and gather intelligence. There was really only one place that provided all that he needed, the home of one Beatrice Adele Dare, or as she was formerly known, Irene Adler.

Without glancing back at Mycroft, Sherlock pulled out his phone and fired off a text.

_‘What should my name be?’_

Sherlock watched in silence as the screen of the phone lit up in reply

_‘How about John Smith?’_

_‘Irene…’_ Sherlock tried to let his annoyance show, any name with _John_ in it was defiantly a bad idea.

 _‘Only joking. What about Martin?’_ He was reading her texts in her voice, was that bad?

 _‘A bit tinny’_ He replied back, he wanted a name with some resonance, and Irene was supposed to be the expert in such things. After all his last two choices hadn’t been great, names like _Shirley Swallows_ and _Sherman Locke_ just wouldn’t cut it on a more permanent basis.

 _‘Rory?’_ That was better but it was too short for Sherlock’s liking.

 _‘Something longer’_ he requested, really where were all her ideas she had boasted about months before.

Two minutes later the reply came: _‘How about Benedict?’_

“Benedict Hearth” Sherlock replied to Mycroft without missing a beat and slipping the phone back into his pocket.

“Hearth?” Mycroft raised his eyebrow “is making jokes going to be a part of your new personality?”

Sherlock just glared at Mycroft as he entered the name into the system.

“Any siblings?” Mycroft asked

“No, only child, parents died in a car crash when he was ten. Was raised by his aunt Martha Hudson until he turned eighteen at which point he moved out to attend university in Canada.” Sherlock spat out at lightning speed.

“ _Canada_ , you didn’t say I had to get you a _Canadian_ passport.” Mycroft interjected, sounding only slightly put out.

“Will it be any more difficult than a British one?” Sherlock sneered back, perhaps he should have said something sooner but the less Mycroft knew the better.

“I guess not” Mycroft said, resigned to the fact his little brother would do as he pleased and not take anyone else into consideration. “And who do you keep messaging anyway, everyone thinks you’re dead.”

“Not important, we’ve got paper work to fill out.” Sherlock sidetracked pointing at the computer to emphases his point.

Mycroft moodily turned back to his keyboard and began typing away double time. He hated being told what to do, especially by Sherlock, and even more so when he knew the younger man was right.

“So, how soon can I fly out?” Sherlock asked a giant smile plastered across his face


End file.
